


First Times

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Psychological Drama, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:33:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5498903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Notable first times for Jim Gordon and Oswald Cobblepot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sjukdom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sjukdom/gifts).



> This is a Christmas exchange gift for the lovely Sjukdom. The prompt was 'first time'. I took some liberties with that - but I hope you like it :)

The first time Jim Gordon was ever mad – really, really mad – at his father was when he was 13 years old. It was his birthday, and his dad had died only a few months earlier. Jim had sat at the dining table in his home, with family and cousins and friends all round him, with that special smile on their faces that he had come to hate, and he’d felt a sudden, frightening rush of anger and hate at him for not _being_ there – for being _stupid_ enough to crash the car in the first place. The anger had been followed almost immediately with shame and – horrified at himself – he had shoved the anger down deep, so it couldn’t come back again.

\- - 

The first time Oswald Cobblepot was ever mad – really, really mad – at his father was when he was 8 years old. The other children had been pushing him around again at recess, and as he had landed heavily on his bony knees, feeling them burn and sting, one boy had asked, in a sing-song tone, ‘Where’s your dad anyway, _Os-wald?_ Did he run away from you and your crazy mom?’ Oswald was so angry that everything had gone blurry for a minute. He had run at the boy head first, fists flailing – but someone slyly stuck a foot out, and he landed on his elbows with a jolt that brought tears to his eyes.

The bell had rung, and they’d run off, bored now, leaving him on the ground. His knees ached, and his elbows ached, and he could feel tears shamefully leaking from the corners of his eyes when he screwed them shut tight – and his rage at the children and rage at his dad who wasn’t _there_ got all muddled up until it was a knot in his stomach, and he couldn’t decide who he hated more.

******

The first time Jim Gordon felt he made his mom proud, really proud, he was 15 years old. He had been sent home from school and suspended for a week for punching another student. He wasn’t sorry. They guy had been being a jerk to some quiet, mousy girl. Jim didn’t even know her, but he’d watched her head droop until her chin was on her chest, and this guy had just kept _going_ , the smirk on his face getting wider and wider. 

Jim’s temper had finally snapped when he had leaned an arm against the wall, stopping her from leaving. Almost without being aware of what he was doing, Jim had hauled his arm off the wall and swung his other fist as hard as he could. The next thing he knew, the guy was on the floor, holding his jaw and sliding away from Jim fast, whining that it had only been a joke. The girl stared at him wide-eyed, like she’d never seen anything like him before. His knuckles were bruised, and the principal yelled – but it was worth it for the satisfaction of shutting that guy up, and the look on that girl’s face. Even the pain in his knuckles felt good. 

The best, though, was the look on his mom’s face when he told her. She’d smiled, and her chin had gone up, and it was like he was different, somehow. Better than before.

\- - 

The first time Oswald Cobblepot felt he made his mom proud, really proud, he was 14 years old, and he had just got his first job. His classmates, _hated_ classmates, had stupid kid jobs, like delivering newspapers, or babysitting – but he’d gone to a restaurant on his block every night for a week and begged for a job, _any_ job. He was _smart_ , and he’d work harder than anyone else. He’d learn, and he’d be great, and maybe he’d run his own place really , really soon, and be able to leave school, and his mother would have been right all along, he was smarter than them, and they were just jealous. 

It was only washing dishes and taking out the garbage, but he’d listen, and watch, and try to learn as much as he could. Anyway, even washing dishes until late and waking gritty-eyed in the mornings was worth it for the look on his mother’s face when he had told her, like she could truly lean on him, and he would look after her now.

******

The first time Jim Gordon had wanted something desperately, so much that he felt sick at the thought of not getting it, he was 21 and going through basic training. The focus and discipline he’d seen from the recruiting officer who had come to his college was something he wished he had, perfect control over himself. 

Besides, it would teach his stepfather a lesson – constantly telling Jim's mother that he was out of control, even when he was only a teenager – that he was still acting out because of his dad. 

He had felt a familiar flare of anger at the memory of his stepfather’s sanctimonious face, and his mother nodding meekly in agreement, and at his father for leaving him in the first place. He uses it to power through the rest of the course and finishes in his best time. The CO’s face is approving, and if he keeps going like this he’s in with a chance for the Special Forces, and Jim has never been so relieved.

\- - 

The first time Oswald Cobblepot had wanted something desperately, so much that he felt sick at the thought of not getting it, he was 21 and trembling in front of Fish Mooney. He’d seen, in his work in restaurants, and bars, and anywhere that would take him, criminals, mafia – like Fish – in private rooms, usually, or at the best table, swaggering in the front door. Everyone was respectful to them, and smiled at them, and seemed grateful to be spoken to. One of them had pressed a fifty-dollar tip into Oswald’s hand like it was nothing, clapping him on the shoulder and telling him he had done a good job, and Oswald had felt a rush of pride that had made him walk straighter and puff his chest out. _He_ wanted to be the one to dispense that largesse, to have everyone look at him like he was _somebody._

He had taken that fifty-dollar note and bought a second-hand suit and gone to Fish Mooney’s club – since he’d heard her name whispered often. And now she was looking at him through narrowed eyes, one manicured nail tapping on the table. He’s not sure what it is that makes up her mind in the end, whether she’s flattered by his nerves, or sees intelligence behind his eyes, or just a blank slate for her own uses, but he leaves with a warning not to let her down, and some pay in advance for a suit that wouldn't embarrass her. He walks out with a sense that he’s improved himself, and he’s never felt so relieved.

******

The first time Jim Gordon felt dissatisfaction – real dissatisfaction, not just pissed, or unfairly treated – he had disobeyed orders again. It didn’t matter that he had been _right_ , that they outcome had been good - better than good – Gordon had still disobeyed orders and had still been reamed by his CO. 

After he’d run 5 miles and his temper had cooled a little, he had sat on his bunk and been able to recognise that it wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary. That even when he obeyed rules and followed orders it was done with a clenched jaw and enough insubordination in his tone to warrant punishment.

Jim rubbed a hand over the bristles at the back of his head and realised that his time in the army was over.

\- - 

The first time Oswald Cobblepot felt dissatisfaction – real dissatisfaction, nor just rage, or a sense of injustice – Fish Mooney had humiliated him. In front of a room full of middling gangsters, all of whom he was smarter than, she had called him ‘her newest boy -not very bright, but obedient’. He’s not sure _exactly_ what he had done to warrant this – he had only been standing quietly by her side, refilling her glass as required - but perhaps his eyes had been too sharp, his jaw too set - despite his efforts to school his face into meek obedience.

She had completed his embarrassment by sending him to fetch her coat, apologising to those present for his awkward appearance while he was still in earshot. The back of his neck had burned, and as he climbed the stairs to her vulgar rooms, he decided the time for learning alone was over, and he must now begin to make new plans.

******

The first time Jim Gordon saw Oswald Cobblepot was in an alley behind Fish Mooney’s club. He’d heard screaming, and ignoring Bullock’s eye-rolling and Mooney’s attitude, had gone back to investigate. When he got there he saw, as expected, a man on the ground, bloody after enduring a beating, and some burly muscle. 

What he hadn’t expected was the pale, slight man holding the bat. He had thrown it aside when Jim told him to, reflexively obedient, even though he looked sulky about it. Taking in a little more detail, Jim noted pallor to the point of unhealthiness, pale eyes, and black, haphazard hair. He had found himself glancing back at him repeatedly while Gilzean was talking, noticing that he was doing the same, glancing back at Jim like he was something new, collecting fresh details with each glance. 

Jim had looked again, before he left to see what Bullock was up to, eye catching on the bizarre, bedraggled figure, ears and nose red with cold.

\- - 

The first time Oswald Cobblepot saw Jim Gordon, really saw him, not just a picture in a newspaper, was in the alley behind the club. He had been helping discipline Raoul, who had been greedy enough to steal and stupid enough to get caught. He had copied what Fish had done, at first, but then his blood was up, and Raoul was everyone who’d ever wronged him, and he was swinging the bat so hard his shoulders hurt. Gilzean had told him to stop, and one of Fish’s less intelligent goons had called him ‘Penguin’, and the whole lovely afternoon was going to be ruined, when a gruff voice had interjected.

A policeman. He’d told Oswald to drop the bat, and he had done, immediately, a coolness washing over him that was oddly…pleasant, for all he’d wanted to keep beating Raoul.

When he looked more closely he saw, to his surprise, the policeman from the newspaper. He was as stern and solid in person as he had been in his picture, and apparently blond, and blue-eyed, and rather attractive, and more dedicated to his job than any other cop Oswald had ever encountered.

Gilzean had claimed it was all fun, and Oswald had backed him up – but Oswald and Gordon's eyes had kept flicking back to each other, everyone else just window dressing. He had left quickly enough, but it still felt…significant, somehow. 

He locked it away jealously. He had few enough things of his own.

******

The first time Jim Gordon knew exactly who he was, his hands were gripping fistfuls of Oswald Cobblepot’s lapels, and he was marching him backwards down the pier while he begged and pleaded for his life. He was bruised, and bloody, and obviously in pain, and even though Jim knew he had beaten that guy in that alley, he still could not stand to see him like this. He was _not_ going to kill him, had known that the moment he had looked down and seen him shaking in the trunk of Bullock’s car, and even in the middle of all the anger and nausea had known a core of calm certainty. He would _not_ fall into line for Falcone, would _not_ adopt his partner’s logic, would _not_ kill this man.

\- - 

The first time Oswald Cobblepot knew exactly who he was, he was swimming through the frigid waters off Gotham’s pier, swimming as far as he could as he could before he had to surface for air. His lungs burned, and his leg hurt past anything he had ever experienced before, but he felt alive. He would have laughed aloud, if he hadn’t been desperately holding his breath. His gamble had worked. Jim Gordon had spared his life. His cleverness and Gordon’s morals had performed a miracle. And Oswald would show him how grateful he was. Their lives were linked, now, irrevocably. Oswald’s ascent would be his ascent. 

As he surfaced with a gasp, the air warm after the icy water, he knew exactly who he was, and what he would do next.

******

The first time Jim Gordon knew he wanted Oswald Cobblepot like, like _that_ , he had visited his club very late at night, a last resort for intel on a murderer who had been targeting prominent citizens, even though he knew this was probably outside Cobblepot’s purview. 

The faint, unsettling niggle at the back of his head that he was looking for sympathy and was sure to get it here was ruthlessly suppressed.

He’d found Cobblepot despondent at the club’s continuing lack of success, and as underdressed as Jim had ever seen him, in just his shirt for once, sleeves rolled up, collar loosened, working off his frustration by clearing the tables. The club was deserted, except for him, the staff having been dismissed early in a fit of temper had fled quickly, knowing what was good for them, no doubt.

His whole demeanour had changed when he had spotted Jim, a genuine smile on his face as soon as he saw him, and Jim had grudgingly conceded to himself that Cobblepot’s apparent delight when he saw him was not – as he had thought – entirely flattery. He was not yet willing to concede that it stroked his ego.

Cobblepot had poured them both two generous measures of whisky and sat down alongside Jim at a table. He told Jim, disappointedly, that he didn’t know anything about the murders, but kept talking anyway, making sympathetic noises about work, pressure, the city – artlessly mentioning over and over that it was good to be able to talk to a _friend_ about such things. 

In turn, Jim had asked him about Maroni – managing to make an enquiry after Cobblepot’s safety sound more like an admonishment, patting himself on the back for this achievement. 

Cobblepot had sighed, and tilted his head back against the chair, and with his starched collar loosened, Jim had noticed the contrast between his sharp collar and soft neck. As he let his eyes rest heavy on his white throat, a familiar, drowsy awareness had washed over him, and he bit his lip. Warmed by the whisky, he wondered, for a moment, an insane moment, what Cobblepot would say if Jim suggested they go upstairs, and work off their respective frustrations.

Cobblepot finished talking, then, and looked over at Jim. The direct eye contact suddenly brought home to Jim exactly what he’d just been imagining and, panicking, he had bolted his whisky, making him cough. Then there had been a solicitous hand lightly patting between his shoulder blades, and Jim had hurriedly offered some excuses and fled, leaving a confused and mildly concerned Cobblepot behind him.

\- - 

The first time Oswald Cobblepot knew he wanted Jim Gordon like that was when he walked into the club looking for Fish. Oswald had been sitting at the bar, poring over the accounts, a chore that he actually didn’t mind. It was an opportunity to learn, not only information that might give him leverage over Fish one day, but valuable lessons he could put into practice when he ran his own place. 

He usually tried to stay firmly in the present, he was playing very dangerous games, after all, _very_ dangerous games – and his mind was far too prone to fantasy, to elaborate visions of his future – feared, respected, adored. 

But often, when he was carrying out a chore that did not require quite all of his attention, his mind would wander, despite his best intentions. The accounts did actually require a lot of concentration, but he still liked to pretend that he was doing them not perched on a bar stool, surrounded by that tacky red décor with the mindless conversation of Fish’s muscle leaking through - but seated at a walnut desk, sequestered in a quiet office - utterly safe and secure.

He had been happily seated in this fantasy office when Jim Gordon had walked in, and for a surreal, disorienting moment, Gordon had also walked into the office in Oswald’s head, apparently equally welcome in his mind as he was in reality. 

He had walked past him with only a fleeting look, on his way to see Fish, but in Oswald’s mind, he had sat down on the sofa on the far wall of his office and, after pouring them both a drink, Oswald had walked over to join him, relaxed, happy to talk. Sat down close enough to be able to rest his arm along the back of the sofa and brush Jim Gordon’s shoulder with his fingertips.

A smile shivered on his face and he laughed nervously. The fantasy was pleasant, even if his stomach fluttered with an entirely new kind of nerves. Blinking, he forced himself to set it aside for the time being and focus on the task at hand. He’d have time to revisit it again later, when he was set to some menial task and could let his mind wander.

******

The first time Oswald Cobblepot realised that he was in over his head when it came to Jim Gordon, he was handcuffed to a radiator and said Jim Gordon had decided to leave him to his fate with Maroni. 

He realised, in that moment, two very important things. One – Jim Gordon was not as predictable as he had thought, making him a rather more dangerous quantity than he had reckoned. Two – Jim Gordon had the power to hurt him. Not just the usual slaps and jibes he was used to from the likes of Fish, or Maroni. A hurt that was impossible to quantify, and made him want to buckle underneath the weight of it. 

Oswald had let things progress too far, even though he had known for months that he was out of control where Jim was concerned, that his judgment was impaired. Now he was being taught a lesson. Whether he would learn anything was another matter.

\- - 

The first time Jim Gordon realised he was in over his head when it came to Oswald Cobblepot, he had just been cut loose from a butcher’s hook, and before running for safety, or even before he had completely unbound his hands - his head had snapped immediately to his left to see whether Oswald Cobblepot needed his help to break free. 

The fact that he looked at all was bad enough – what was _wrong_ with him? - but if Cobblepot had noticed – it would have exposed his earlier lie, forcing Cobblepot to use up his favour by claiming he’d leave him for Maroni - even though he had no real intention of doing so. And it had worked, and he had used it up, and Jim had felt a cold weight on his chest that he’d actually thought it of him, that he thought he’d leave him to be murdered.

The fact that Oswald Cobblepot’s opinion of him apparently mattered - a _liar_ , a killer - was terrifying. The fact that Jim cared enough to worry about him was terrifying. And he had no idea what to do with any of it but bury it.

******

The first time Jim Gordon realised he would never have it in him to kill Oswald Cobblepot, despite what he knew he was capable of, despite fights, despite extreme provocation, despite _everything_ conspiring to make him do it, he had a gun pointed at the man, and Theo Galavan cringing behind him, hissing poison in his ear.

Oswald Cobblepot had stood in front of him, gripping a shotgun like it was the only thing holding him up, his voice painful as he told Jim that Galavan had killed his mother. it wasn't an accusation, or a jibe - but a raw confidence given to a friend - and Jim had felt a rush of sympathy that was almost physical, that made it hurt to exhale, and knew that his face would be betraying him.

He could’ve shot him. He’d have had a million lies to justify it to himself. He deserved it, he’d kill so many others, he’d be putting him out of his misery, he’d free himself of his ties and be able to start new, he’d be able to string Galavan along longer… but none of those good, strong lies could stand in the face of the truth. 

\- - 

The first time Oswald Cobblepot realised he would never have it in him to kill Jim Gordon, despite his pragmatism, despite fights, despite the threat he posed, despite his frequent lack of cooperation, he had a gun pointed at the man, or rather, at Theo Galavan, cringing behind him.

Jim stood in front of him, refusing to move – despite Oswald’s warning – and even though Oswald could simply have shot, gone through him to get to Galavan – he found he simply couldn’t. Instead, he had found himself telling Jim about his mother, stepping towards him, seeking out sympathy he knew the man was not willing to offer.

He could just have shot him. He might have regretted it later, but he could have rationalised it to himself somehow. He'd betrayed him, he owed it to his mother, he knew too much, he’d be able to rid himself of Galavan… but none of those rationalisations would have filled his absence.

******

The first time Jim Gordon finally managed to spit out an awkward truth before he could bury it, or justify it into nothingness, or pretend it was something else, was in Oswald Cobblepot’s drawing room – his latest preferred venue for meetings, absurd, affected man that he was. 

An impromptu meeting had caught Jim tired and stressed and Cobblepot tired and stressed and tempers had frayed, and insults were slung, and old half-healed wounds were being systematically reopened until they were nose to nose and yelling. Jim couldn’t quite trace how they had got from discussing a mid-level drug dealer to detailed analyses of each other’s character flaws, but Oswald – dramatic as usual - was accusing Jim of treachery, wanting to be rid of him, of wanting him in Arkham, in Blackgate, at the bottom of the river.

And at that, something in Jim’s head just gave way. Grabbing Cobblepot by his lapels and hauling him even closer, Jim had gritted out that he didn’t want him in _Arkham_ , or _Blackgate,_ or the _river_ and that he didn’t want to get _rid_ of him and - Jesus! - _didn’t he get it?_ and clearly Jim had felt he hadn’t, since he shifted one hand to grasp a handful of black hair and hold him still while he kissed him.

\- - 

The first time in recent memory – or distant memory – that Oswald Cobblepot had felt a sense of purpose that wasn’t motivated by hatred, or revenge, was immediately after Jim Gordon had told him he didn’t want to get rid of him, ever, and then kissed him senseless. Oswald, being a practical man, knew that this was as romantic a declaration as Jim Gordon was likely to make, and assiduously steered him backwards towards the sofa.

This was unfamiliar ground, and Oswald’s mind should have been whirring with plans and possibilities and ways to exploit this new situation – but he found his usual habit eclipsed by a blaze in his brain that felt a lot like joy, and all he could think about was pinning Jim Gordon to the sofa and kissing him breathless.

After that, there were many more first times, but those were shared, and nobody’s business but their own.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, then thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Lots of headcanon here regarding characters' backgrounds - I'm happy to chat more about that in the comments.


End file.
